The Terms Of Divorce
by KissMeImOnlyPlastic
Summary: They had parted ways on bad terms. So, why then, was Watson attempting to return? Holmes/Watson. Rated for possible later chapters. Back In Progress
1. I Fed The Dog

Occasionally Sherlock Holmes would find the most irresponsible places to make an observation. Take, for one, the fighting ring. An irresponsible place indeed if he wanted to keep his health about him, which he didn't seem so intent on doing at the very moment, however, this was the bare tip of the iceberg, he had in fact, been quite reckless with his health as of late, and there was only one logical reason as to why that was.

Dr. John H. Watson, and his oh-so-lovely bride, Miss Mary.

Oh, now that was a dreadful thought. Mary Watson. He could barely contain the irritation the thought caused him before a fist connected with his jaw and he was sent staggering towards the side of the ring, clutching at the side of it as his breath left him. Now that was simply annoying.

He could have finished the man seven minutes ago, he was a large man by compare, but so much more inexperienced. Obviously used to relying on his sheer size to win and not thinking someone of Holmes' stature could beat him so much so that he left himself open almost all of the time.

The truth remained that Holmes had been toying with him, allowing this, and as the realization struck him, so did a blow to the lower abdomen, his spine going ridged and immediately he keeled over, blood staining his lips before he felt hands on him, somebody was crouching in front of him, and his head was so dazed that he could barely recognize the person.

A pair of hands nursed his face in them, and concerned eyes stared into the dilated pupils before said man stood up, ordering the fight over.

That would have been the logical thing to allow, but Holmes wouldn't have any of it, and carelessly, he pushed the man out of the way and stepped forward, ducking a right punch and grasping the man at the forearm, slamming his elbow into the side of the arm he held and hearing the resounding crack.

Broken elbow.

Twisting this arm, still in his grasp, behind the man's back, he turned it at an odd angle, and the sickening sound, only compared to a wet 'pop' escaped the joint.

Dislocated shoulder.

Releasing him and relieving a sharp kick into the side of his leg, the man crumbled. No broken bones, just a nice spot of nerves tingling with pain. The crowd went wild, and without another glance back, he slipped out of the ring, picking up a drink on the way out, and his winnings, stowing them into his pocket. He didn't have to be able to see straight to know who the man had been. No one had hands like that, Holmes knew by experience, the man was always having to tend to him after all, but that had been before.

"Holmes!"

The voice cut through his inner workings and he turned, glancing over his shoulder, "I didn't notice your usual bet, I thought Mary must have pull the leash tighter than I'd ordinarily imagined," He responded in that cool, calculating tone. Boarding on a simple amusement at everything he spoke of, as if he observed Humans, somehow apart from them.

"You can't make it home on your own-"

"Ah, now that's where you're wrong. I fully intend on making my way home, indeed unaccompanied, and I will make it, a fractured rib is not going to prevent that, I assure you," He responded, "Why did you come, Watson?" He asked finally, staring at the man in a distant manner.

"I was worried."

"You'll get over it, I'm sure."

Turning on his heel he stumbled home, past the Nanny and her concerned look, and into his bedroom where he collapsed on the bed, ignoring the ball of unconscious fur near the fireplace, only just visibly breathing. He'd been experimenting the night before, and forgotten to put away some of the items. Clearly Gladstone had decided they looked edible enough.

It had been Watson's choice.

He was a stubborn man, after all. He was also selfish, neither of these Holmes denied. And when he'd offered the choice, Watson had gone with his fiance and left Holmes alone. Well, the deal had been made, and Holmes refused to let it break.

If he were to let Watson back in, then what? It would simply be a matter of time before the man left him again on Mary's will. No, if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes wasn't, it was a fool. With this thought in mind, he let sleep take him, the exhaustion in him keeping him in the deathly brace of dreams until past eleven the next day.

He awoke to bandages littering some of his worst injuries and a note settled beside him on a plate of food stating simply 'eat'.

Frowning, he took a few bites of the food, wandering about his room. Surely not the Nanny. He was interrupted by a few content sounds from Gladstone, and the sound of munching.

A note stuck to Gladstone's back read, 'I fed the dog', and Holmes snatched it up with an irritable sound, screwing it up in his hand and tossing it onto the floor to be lost amongst his mess.

The terms of this 'divorce' were simple.

Why couldn't Watson stick to them?


	2. Sabotage

"Dr. Watson has left several messages."

Holmes ignored the warning, passing the 'Nanny' on his way back up to his room, shutting the door behind him and putting a few bottles amongst the mess of the table, opening one and swallowing down the alcohol greedily, his mind buzzing with a soft haze which seemed to dim the jagged points of life around him. If only for the moment, he could take solace in the fact that regrets, resentment, and other such emotions, would not plague him.

It was halfway through his third bottle that the door was opened, and he glanced up, Watson frowning at him and walking over, removing the bottle from his hand despite his protests.

"What do you think you're doing-"

"Shut up," Watson interrupted in a decisive manner, "You are supposed to be a brilliant man, and yet you drown your mind in this rubbish?" He demanded, pushing Holmes back against the bed and inspecting his pupils, a palm pressing against his forehead in a testing manner.

"You're-"

"Dehydrated. I know, I am as you put it, a brilliant man-And you are no longer my Doctor, so why are you here?" Holmes questioned, trying to push the male off him, but the alcohol had left him somewhat sluggish, if not in mind, but in body.

"No, I'm not your Doctor," Watson answered with a bitter tone, "But I'm still your friend, no matter how intent you seem to sabotage that," He spoke, a furious undertone lingering in his voice.

"I'm sabotaging it?" Holmes questioned, testing the words on his tongue, "Surely, old boy, you know it's you who made the choice-You knew full well what would happen should you pick your beloved Mary, and you did it anyway. I'd think that meant you were the one to throw in the figurative towel," He insisted.

"So-Why are you here?" Holmes asked, clearing his throat and inspecting the man in front of him before a chuckle escaped his lips, "Dark bags under your eyes, you've not had sleep-And the stubble suggests you've been bothered. You look of a man whose been under enough stress and-You no longer smell of her perfume," He observed, "You had an argument, and you returned to my side for some words of comfort, well I'm not going to give them."

Watson frowned, drawing back, "You think we had an argument," He spoke unsteadily.

"I'm correct, aren't I? Of course I am-Let's see, perhaps she caught your eye on another woman, or-"

He was silenced by a blow to the face, and his hand clutched over it in shock, eyes staring wearily at the Doctor, "I'm not sure if anyone taught you the meaning of 'bed side manner', but I'll give you a hint, it wasn't that," He spoke up.

"You idiot," Watson scoffed, standing off the bed, laughter teasing at his lips, but the bitter laughter as if he'd been disappointed far beyond words could expression. "You got something wrong, Holmes. Pity, I thought you to be quite observant, old boy, but we argued over no woman. We argued over you-I insisted she allow my good friend into my life more than she had been-She thinks you an arrogant man, uncaring of anyone other than yourself," He spoke with distaste.

"And I don't think I've ever agreed with her more on something."

The closing door signaled he'd left, and Holmes lay on the bed, removing his hands from his face and dropping them to his side. Cruel twist of fate, now he was the 'bad guy'. And he was enjoying not being at fault.

This was why he had nothing to do with women.

Ah well, back to the bottle. Nothing more to do now than to rest in the grave he'd made for himself.


	3. Animated Rocks

Alcohol seemed the only way to keep his mind from wandering. That, and many unnamed substances he'd stumbled upon while tossing things around in the Doctor's old room. He'd been due to blow up for some time, and he finally had, glimpsing through the remaining belongings the man had insisted he didn't need any longer, so Holmes had utilized them.

"This is your fault," He accused himself, and he knew it was true.

"You're a poison-Slipping yourself in unnoticed-Bizarre and peculiar, foreign to the normal, and interesting to some who wish to utilize your specific talents," He murmured to himself, a bottle clutched in his hand. He wasn't drunk. No, he was simply voicing himself out loud, something he'd become accustomed to, since there was no one around to frown at him for it.

"And then, you take hold and you destroy everything," He mumbled, leaning back on the bed.

The bed.

Not his bed.

And no longer the good Doctor's bed.

He swallowed another mouthful of alcohol, and could think only bitterly of how far he'd fallen. He was the most intelligent man of his time, aside from James Moriarty, he was unchallenged. And yet here he was, succumbing to the downfalls of the most stupid man.

Alcohol. Drugs. And surely, Emotion had the biggest part to play in this.

He'd once theorized that, had mankind no emotions, they would coexist happily. Though, without emotion, surely they wouldn't be human, but animated rocks.

Lifting himself off the bed, the detective wandered downstairs, approaching the phone and bringing it to his ear, dialing the Doctor and waiting as the harsh ringing sung in his ears before the Doctor's tired voice answered with a careless 'hello'.

"Watson," Holmes murmured into the receiver.

"What is it, Holmes?"

"It's passed my mind, that perhaps, I could have been incorrect in my displays of-"

"Holmes," Watson's voice was impatient, and Holmes swallowed down his excuses.

"I may have been in the wrong," He spoke quietly. Watson knew very well it was as much of an apology as he was going to get out of the Detective, and smiled fleetingly, glad the other man couldn't see it.

"Would you perhaps accompany me to lunch where we can discuss this?" Holmes asked in a strained voice, he'd never been fond of talking on the phone. Too impersonal, and he couldn't read peoples faces over the phone, so aside from their tone, he could deduce nothing of their reactions, and that left him confused.

"I'll be over in an hour," Watson responded, "We can eat at-" He wanted to say Home, but it wasn't his any longer. He didn't have that call. "Your home," He finished, "It is far more comfortable to discuss these affairs within the confines of one's own house," He said decidedly.

"Of course."

"I'll see you then."

"Watson-"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

The phone went dead before Watson could respond and he looked somewhat stunned for the moment, hanging the phone up and finding his coat and hat. Holmes must truly miss him. He wouldn't have said something like that if he didn't consider Watson a friend, and he'd been thinking he was only another person to the usually indifferent Detective.

He liked to think that Holmes would never let someone in that close-He liked to think he hadn't been close enough to harm the Detective when he'd left.

Apparently he'd been wrong.


	4. Attempts To Reconsile

Their food sat on the table, half-eaten, and Holmes seemed intent on avoiding any form of eye contact between him and the Doctor, unsure of how to approach this situation without leaving himself without defense. In his mind, emotion did that. Robbed you of any form of defense, and left you out in the open, no cover to rely on, and Holmes was not a man who enjoyed feeling like that.

"Holmes," Watson spoke with a deep sigh. He should have expected this. Glancing over towards the man, he frowned.

"Watson I-...I have done a great deal of damage toward our friendship," And it was not a word he used lightly, 'friends' were something he didn't need, he was sure of that. But unfortunately, the further Watson drifted from him, the more his mind disagreed.

"I mean to reconsile, only I-" He paused, swallowing, his fingers fidgeting as he grasped his pipe, stocking it with tobacco to occupy his hands, and keep himself busy, trying to show that the pause were only meant for this fact, and not because for once he simply couldn't find any words to speak. A heavy hand on his shoulder almost started him, he'd not been concentrating enough to know Watson had moved, and the man was now beside him, trying to urge Holmes to meet his eyes.

And he did.

And instantly, he regretted it. Watson cared. For Christsake he cared. And that warm hand provided more care and comfort than Holmes had ever seemed to notice, his dark eyes searching Watson's for anything to hold onto, something to give him a word or two to say, but he found nothing.

"I've been watching you tare yourself apart, old boy," Watson spoke, fingers pressing into Holmes' shoulder to assure the man he was still there, "With the alcohol, and the drugs, and putting yourself into danger at every chance you get," He listed off, "And I cannot imagine a more painful sight to see," He frowned, "Holmes, I need you to understand, I am still your friend-And though you've tried for some reason to push me away, I am not going to leave you behind because I can see, as loath as you are to admit it, that you need me," He continued.

Holmes' throat turned dry, and he wet his lips out of instinct, a weary smile appearing at the corner of his lips, "Perhaps more so than you can imagine," He responded, the smile growing slightly, "Watson, I-"

His words were halted when he jolted forward in the seat, throwing up his dinner on the shirt of the other man, his body shaking the and pipe dropped aside. His head felt hazy, clogged and full, and his eyes were groggy as he watched Watson shift out of his jacket, using the clean part to clean the vomit from Holmes mouth, grasping the male clear, jade eyes staring into his own and his lips mouthing 'holmes' over and over before everything simply fell into shadows, and Sherlock Holmes fell unconcious.


	5. Self Inflicted

The smell of vomit was the first thing that greeted the waking Detective, and for a moment, he thought he might add to it. Recovering himself, however, he swallowed and gripped his fingers into the bed, forcing himself up before cracking his eyes open and taking in the simply untidy manner of his own bedroom. He was covered in a blanket and his clothes had been changed, he briefly thought to question by whom, but thought that could perhaps be a question for another time.

He should have expected what happened. Alcohol, drugs and a mixture of medications from Watson's old room weren't a particularly healthy combination. But on the other hand, he had hardly believed Watson to accept his invitation, if he had've known, perhaps he wouldn't have dabbled so dangerously.

"Holmes, you're awake," Watson trudged over towards him wearing an expression Holmes knew very well. It was one of disapproval and worry. He almost allowed a smile at it.

"And a good morning to you to," Holmes smiled, making a strange noise when Watson thrust something into his mouth and began poking around without request, inspecting his gums for a moment before drawing back, "The drugs seem to have left your system," He spoke finally, removing his gloves and tossing them into the trash bin.

"You know, it is generally a manner of polite behaviour to ask before you go-" "Why would you do that?" Watson asked in a tired voice, "Holmes, you're going to get hurt one day and I won't be able to fix it," He spoke with a frown, "You have to stop being so reckless," He murmured, meeting Holmes slightly dreary gaze, "I mean, I don't even understand how you can do this to yourself.." The Doctor paused, watching Holmes deliberate the question.

"At first-It was because I could," Holmes started, "And then, when you left-It was to worry you," He admitted, "But inevitably, it was to punish myself," He finalized. "For being the way that I am. The person that I am. For being foolish enough to start trusting someone, then allowing them to slip away, even going so far as to push them away," Holmes murmured, burying his face into his hands, "I punish myself, because I know on some level, that I deserve it, Watson."

"My God, Holmes," Watson breathed out in disbelief, Holmes felt the bed dip as the man sat beside him, then he felt an arm stretch around his shoulders and the other around his waist in some form of embrace. Instead of becoming reserved and perplexed as he usually would have, Holmes leant into it before he brought his arms around Watson in return, his face buried into the male's chest, his eyes closed tightly.

He'd later dismiss this as a delirium caused by the combination he'd taken. He'd say he was simply unable to control himself, and that he was exhausted and unable to judge the situation as usual.

But for now, Holmes let the man hold him, and pressed into the warmth of the other, strangely comforted by having someone so close. No, by having Watson nearby.


	6. Maybe A Fever

_AN:/ I apologize so much for the delay on this Chapter, life has just gotten a bit in the way lately, but I promise to start working harder. I have this and my other story 'Time Is Fleeting' which will be under progress, and I may release one or two one-shots in between to keep my creativity flowing. If you have a request on a one shot, follow the instructions on my profile, I'd love to give it a shot._

"And that Christmas that you gave Gladstone-"

"He fell unconscious-Watson, that look isn't going to help anything, I told you he-"

"Doesn't mind," Watson responded in a sing-song voice, "Yes, well, I'm sure he'd mind if he realized you weren't just feeding him before you ought to be, but because you'd put some bizarre concoction of yours in it," The man scoffed, taking another mouthful of the blissful tea he'd missed since leaving, glancing up as the door cracked open and Mrs. Hudson wandered in, carrying a tray with more tea, exchanging the Teapots.

"Dinner will be on in an hour, Mr. Holmes, will you be joining us, Doctor?" She questioned.

"Dinner-Oh, has it really been that long?" Watson murmured, fishing the pocket watch out of his waistcoat and looking surprised, "Mary will-Oh, I'll send a message along-I'd love to stay for dinner," Watson excused.

He and Holmes had been so delved into their conversation that since the man had awoken four hours ago, they'd simply not taken a break. It was wonderful, to talk the way they used too, about their old ventures, but it left an almost bitter sweet taste in his mouth. He enjoyed this far more than the give-or-take conversations he had with Mary, and he missed both Holmes, and oddly enough, their dangerous cases.

"We've had some interesting times, that's for sure," Watson smiled, "Oh, but interesting they were," Holmes accompanied, taking a mouthful of his drink.

He'd managed to urge the dishevelled Detective to have a shower, and with the nice hot tea in his system he looked a pleasant sight. A lot healthier at least, though a good meal wouldn't go amiss. Despite Holmes' protests, Watson had almost managed to put a little order to the room, at least enough so to throw the trash out and put the clothes away.

"Have you had any cases lately?" Watson murmured.

"Nothing of any interest to me-It's as if the world is idiotic and cannot solve simple problems themselves, and they think to call them 'cases'," Holmes protested, leaning into his chair with an exhausted sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"You need to eat, then you need some sleep," Watson decided, Holmes pausing, probably to protest, before he swallowed the worlds down and instead gave a weak nod, "Yes-Of course," He murmured in agreement, the Doctor biting his tongue, he didn't want a snappy remark to ruin this moment of Holmes' actually listening to his advice for once.

Once their plates had been emptied, Watson was practically beaming, they'd done nothing but talk and laugh for the past hours, and it was wonderful. Wonderful to have his friend back. Nothing was going to get in the way of that, not again.

"Come on then," Watson sighed, wandering over to the man's couch and helping the man stand, he was still a little weak from earlier, and had begrudgingly had to accept Watson's help in getting around since then.

He felt the long-fingered hands grasp into his forearm, and walked the man towards his bed, breathing in Holmes' scent, feeling the warm body against his. It was comfortable, reluctantly he admitted it. Lowering Holmes onto the bed, the man rambling under his breath as he lifted the covers and snatched some dusty book off the bedside table.

"Are you alright, Watson-You're bright red, it could be a fever-"

"Ah, no. It's fine, I must be on my way, rest yourself-I'll see you soon," Watson excused and after a few words, the Doctor disappeared out of the man's door. 'Something' was clearly trying to get between he and the Detective's friendship, he'd felt heat enter more than one places, and silently scolded himself.

This was some foolish reaction of the fumes in the bedroom. Something he couldn't control, clearly.

Under no sun would John Watson be attracted to the Detective.


	7. God Help Him

_AN:/ A quick ol' update, hope you all enjoy it. Poor frustrated Watson, I'm proud of myself, there hasn't even been a kiss and it's already chapter seven! Anyway, I'll be updating as soon as I possibly can, and I'm also writing one-shots of most genres. If you have a request pop on over to my userpage and get the information there, I'd love to write something up for you._

Mary had fussed over him to no end when he'd returned home. He understood her concern. Sherlock Holmes was indeed a dangerous man to be around, more so for the Detective himself, but there were other dangers apparently that the male had only just revealed, and it was the reason Watson was poured over papers in his Office while Mary rested in bed on her own.

Pushing his fingers through the short hair on his head, Watson closed his eyes tightly, rubbing his free hand against them and hoping against all hopes that he'd simply fall asleep right then and there. His mind couldn't handle these questions.

He'd gone from one worry to the next. Holmes had been all patched up when he'd left, healthy so far as the Detective was concerned, and it was a remarkable difference. But of course, being around him had brought up more questions, questions that bordered on the illegal. Questions Watson didn't want to repeat, let alone know the answers for.

This, unfortunately, wasn't something he could go to his all knowing friend about, even with the excuse that it was a friend, of a friend, of a friend. That never worked with Holmes.

Burying his face into the palms of his hands, Watson made a disgruntled groan, and leant back into his seat.

"What have you done now, old boy?" He murmured under his breath, the question disappearing into the silence of the room, and after a moment longer he'd moved off to his bed, climbing in carefully so as not to disturb his wife-to-be and he drew the covers over himself, clenching his eyes closed and forcing himself into a troubled sleep.

The next week went by and while most things seemed to be in order, John Watson couldn't keep his thoughts so. Not when he spent time with Holmes. Not when he realized just how close the Detective got to him. How many times Holmes touched him. The lack of clothing Holmes was fond of wandering around in. Gods, it was driving him insane.

"Would you please dress yourself, Holmes?" Watson questioned tiredly at the messy-haired male wandering around in a robe.

"I'm on the boarders of a monumental discovery, and you think I ought to focus on my personal attire?" Holmes questioned in disbelief, Watson sighing, "What was I thinking," He said in a lightly sarcastic tone, letting the man return to his thoughts while Watson was unwillingly dragged back into his own thoughts.

"My God, I'm attracted to him."

"I'm going to assume that lack of sleep caused your brain to miss the function that would have turned that into thoughts," Holmes interrupted and Watson's eyes snapped open, a panicked look on his features.

"Oh, come now Watson, I'm not going to judge you for your tastes in people," Holmes answered the look and Watson scoffed under his breath. If only you knew, he thought with an idle expression.

"Were you wanting to talk about it?" Holmes offered, though clearly the discomfort in his voice spoke that he would rather not. Affection wasn't his forte, emotion as well, and Watson waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

"And take you away from your 'monumental discovery', I hardly think so," He chuckled, watching Holmes' expression mimic one of gratefulness, before the man launched into some sort of explanation on what it was he was actually doing, moving around the table and moving numerous objects, most of which Watson hardly even knew had even existed.

Watson sighed to himself, if he was having that much trouble keeping his eyes off the Detective, that much trouble keeping his thoughts to himself, the next time the male touched him he could barely even assume to know what would happen.

The day dragged on as a combination of Holmes' indistinguishable words, and Watson's distracted gazes and by the time night had come around Holmes had managed to light the table on fire, which both Holmes and Watson had struggled to put out, both men covered in all manners of soot and strange smelling chemicals.

"Mary will absolutely kill me," Watson grimaced, looking down at his attire.

"Come now, it isn't that bad-Though, you have a horrible mess of soot on your face-Heaven knows what she'll think," The man chuckled, reaching up and wiping the mess away his wrist caught in Watson's grasp and he raised a brow.

"I can't manage to help you if you're going to-" He cut off when Watson had bumped him back against the previously burning table and the slightly taller man was closing the space between them before releasing him like he'd been electrocuted.

"Don't know what-…Came over me," Watson mumbled flustered, his hand going to his hair, "I-I'll see you next week, Holmes," The Doctor said, quickly escaping the house and climbing into his cab, his face buried in soot covered hands, and a groan escaping him, God help him if this fixation of his got any worse.


	8. Some Kind Of Masochist

As Sherlock Holmes would constantly insist, he was no fool. Though, there were limits to his seemingly limitless intelligence, and there were few topics he didn't bother his mind with, maintaining that his head could simply not handle useless information, information which would never be of use to him.

Astrology was one of these such matters, who on Earth needed to know what gravitated around what? But the most unimportant in his eyes, had been emotions. And unfortunately, on occasion this little ignorance had left him in a state of confusion.

Rested back in the middle of the floor, the dark-haired man exhaled sharply, his right hand coming up to massage his temples, and his tongue wetting his lips.

_What had come over Watson? _

Watson, so usually level-headed aside from the ease it took to rile the man up. Surely it hadn't been anger. Holmes had seen Watson angry, he was quite familiar with the reactions it provoked, being the one who angered Watson more frequently than others, and what had happened hadn't been any sort of anger driven reaction.

Closing his eyes, he thought back, he could feel the heat from the Doctor's breath, and that aggressive grasp on his wrist, the man baring down on him.

Pushing his fingers through his hair, Holmes pushed the thought aside, he'd just demand an explanation, he was very good at getting information he wanted. It definitely wasn't worth troubling his mind over, if only his mind agreed and would stop repeating that image in his head sending him into a state of frustration, and lifting himself to his feet he wandered toward the door, scooping up a jacket and slipping it on his shoulders before escaping into the cold streets, the wind hitting him sharply and his fingers grasping into the jacket to clutch it tighter around himself.

Exhaling, a light mist escaped his lips and he grimaced, he'd never been fond of the cold, aside from the nice effect it had in clearing his head. At this hour the streets were alive with the less than upper-class types, and women walked the streets, engaging men in conversation which would inevitably lead in an exchange in money.

After dismissing a pouty-faced female, Holmes followed her with his gaze as another male took her up on the offer, his hands grasping her wrists and pushing her back, towering over her and-

Oh God.

No, surely not?

"_My God, I'm attracted to him."_

Oh no. Definitely not. Surely-

That image in his head, he could distinctly remember Watson leaning closer and his hands clasped over his eyes in an attempts to ruin the image which was ingrained in his head, and Holmes wasted no time in briskly walking the streets, not hesitating to rap against a door waiting as he heard locks fumbling.

"Holmes? Do you have any idea what hour it is-"

"Tell me you're not attracted to me, Watson," Holmes demanded.

"…" The Doctor tensed, swallowing uncomfortably, "Perhaps you should go home," He spoke and Holmes heaved his shoulders, staring at the male with a disbelieving look on his features.

"Are you some sort of masochist?"

"Holmes, Mary is home," Watson insisted.

"Are you planning on getting over this-"

Watson clasped a hand over the male's mouth in frustration, "Mary is home," He said firmly, "I know you wish to speak of this, but we cannot do it here, or now," He continued, lowering his hand from the male's mouth with a sigh.

"We will speak of this," He promised.

"It would be better if you simply got over it," Holmes sighed, tightening his coat around him and stepping off the door step and heading back to Baker Street.

"If only it were that simple," Watson sighed, disappearing back into his home.


	9. We All Make Mistakes

"Holmes," Watson said, his firm voice cutting through the Detective's rambling for the tenth time thus far. The man seemed to have mastered the ability of avoiding an unwanted subject by avoiding all eye contact and continuously rambling on matters which Watson was certain didn't even interest Holmes in the least.

"We have to talk about this," He persisted, cutting Holmes off before he could start talking again, hearing only a sigh from the other male's part before the dark-haired man turned and faced him.

"There's nothing to talk about," He decided, "You're going to stop being attracted to me," He decided with ease, and a bitter laugh escaped Watson.

"Oh, quite," Watson responded, "Look, I'm not happy about this-I hardly asked for it. I have the woman I love who I'm about to marry in a month, and this is the last thing that should've happened," He murmured.

"Well, you've said it all. This shouldn't have happened. You have a wife," Holmes quoted, "You just have to shut off any feelings-"

"Like you?" Watson demanded, irritation filling him, "I can't shut off my emotions like some hollow-thing!" He bit out, resenting the words even as he said them as he caught the slightest wince from his friend.

"It isn't who I am," He finished with a frown, "I can't be like you," He sighed.

"Maybe you're mistaken," Holmes spoke up, swallowing uncomfortably. This was hardly the situation he'd thought he'd be in when he'd first met Watson. Thinking back, he hadn't even expected to live this long with his choice of lifestyle. It helped to have a Doctor patching you up at every turn.

"I'm sure I understand my own feelings," Watson answered idly, watching the Detective grasp for more excuses before standing up and approaching Holmes.

"Whether you like it or not, I know I'm attracted to you-That I care for you," Watson said quietly, throwing caution to the wind. "I know you care for me," He added, staring at the discomforted Detective.

"I do," Holmes said with ease, "But it doesn't mean-"

A pair of thin lips closed over his, and he felt the Doctor's large hands grasp at his waist, pulling him closer, hot breath brushing out against his lips and for a moment he stood their stunned, letting the arms wrap around him.

Parting his lips as he felt the Doctor's tongue slick against his lower lip, he groaned quietly at the sensation, his arms pinned between their torsos, though when he felt Watson begin to move his hands, Holmes' hands curled into fists, and he shoved the man back with an unrestrained strength causing him to stumble and leaving a large enough space between them for Holmes to regain his bearings.

"Get out."

"Holmes," Watson spoke in a pleading voice, his eyes searching for Holmes' own, the man furiously staring away from him.

"Get out, now," Holmes said firmly, turning his back on the man and planting his palms against the table, his fingers clenching into it.

How had he let this happen?

"I-…I'm leaving," Watson assured him, picking up his coat and pausing near the door, "I shouldn't have-I'm so sorry, Holmes," He insisted, leaving the room without another word, leaving the Detective to the silence of the room.

Swallowing, Holmes swept his hand across the table, throwing his frustrations into breaking the items within his grasp, collapsing into his arm chair after awhile, his face buried into his fingers.

The illegal had never bothered him. Nor had being seen as a normal person in the public eye. True, his sexual thoughts had never really been many, and never of people in particular. Gender wasn't much of an issue.

No, it was the fact that the person was Watson. Watson who'd stood by his side through the worst times. Watson who looked out for him, and whom he cared about. Watson who he didn't want to lose.

How could Watson even believe that he could care about Holmes?

In all honesty, the Doctor was far better off with his wonderful wife, than with a broken man who could barely look after himself.


	10. If Only Doesn't Make For A Happy Ending

_AN:/ Sorry this took so long, and I'm even more apologetic for the length. Life has really been dragging me away from the computer as of late, but I'm going to try and put in a little more effort. I've started sleeping more, so hopefully I'll be healthier, and not so tired when I get home for work so I can put a couple of hours into writing. As always, feel free to request one shots, the details are on my profile. _

Chapter Ten: If Only Doesn't Make For A Happy Ending

Well. He'd gone and done it. Congratulations, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You've managed to rid yourself of the bother of every single person who has ever cared for you. Good show. How do you feel now? Proud? Lonely?

The bitter thoughts snapped at him from the dark corners of his mind, and Holmes did what he felt would be the most appropriate action to this situation, he'd found a bottle in the mess he called a room and he'd opened it, taking a nice mouthful of alcohol, the taste bitter on his tongue. Watson would come, of course the man would-He believed he'd been the one who messed up. He'd come and he would apologize, and Sherlock Holmes would do what he did best, and he'd push the Doctor away.

"I'll take care of him-"

"See that you do, Doctor. I'm afraid he isn't himself-What could have possibly happened? I thought he was doing so well-"

The voices barely registered on his mind before he allowed the delirium of alcohol cloud his mind.

The next week went on like this, and no matter how Holmes tried, Watson kept returning to clean him up and deliver him into his bed, despite the words the Detective barked. The protests and complaints. It was only a matter of time before he'd be rid of Watson and he wouldn't have to worry about this, about the man's unwarranted infatuation.

"Holmes," Watson sighed, his arms slipping under the Detective's and carefully he lifted him to the bed. The man reeked of Whiskey, as if he'd bathed in the stuff, and Watson collapsed back into the chair he'd dragged beside Holmes' bed, watching as the male propped himself against the wall beside his bed, his back flush against it and his head hung.

"Why do you care about me, Watson?" The man questioned, his tone scratchy.

"Because I do," Watson sighed dismissively.

"That isn't good enough," Holmes said, glancing up at the man, a disapproving look in his eyes, "You are by no means as intelligent as me-But you are not an idiot, Watson. Why on Earth would you devote your affections to me of all people?" He asked in a scrutinizing tone.

"Why do you find it so hard to believe I could care for you?"

"Because I'm not something for people to care about-Watson, I'm selfish-I don't care about anything, or anyone-I insist on dosing myself with liquor, and other indescribable substances-"

The Detective had begun to ramble, and Watson could see his red-rimmed eyes downcast with a build up of tears and he shifted onto the bed, reaching out and barely reacting when Holmes pushed his hands aside.

"I am not something for you to care about, Watson-You are far too good a person for me," Holmes said firmly, struggling a bit as Watson shifted closer and pulled Holmes into an embrace against his will.

"You never were very confident in your self worth-Aside from your intelligence, I've never been able to understand why you can't see all I see in you," Watson said quietly, grasping the Detective close and pressing his lips to the man's forehead as his struggles relented and the dark-haired male relaxed slightly as Watson rubbed circles in his back.

It was when the red-eyed Detective leant up and pressed their lips together that Watson backed off.

"Were it any other circumstance I would not protest-But not while you're intoxicated," Watson frowned, urging Holmes to lay down before pulling the covers over the Detective.

If only he'd registered that the bottle he'd pried from Holmes' hands earlier was full. If only he'd registered that the smell of liquor was coming from the damp patch on the Detective's shirt and not his breath.


	11. Wedding Bells

_AN:/ Wow, it's really been too long, and I apologize so much for that. Christmas came and went, then school holidays which meant time with my family, then moving to a new home, birthdays, work, and all that led up to right now. Unemployed and looking for studies, so in the mean time I have an enormous amount of free time on my hands. I don't want to promise that I'll be updating all the time, but since all the big stuff is over, it's what I'm aiming to do. For those of you who stuck around, I'm surprised, honestly, but glad. Hope you enjoy this, because in a couple of hours I'll have a second chapter up for you as a sorry._

Chapter Eleven: Wedding Bells

The soft reminder of Watson's lips was beginning to frustrate the Detective as he wet his lips uncomfortably, hunched over his table like some disfigured vulture, eyes boring into the many chemicals scattered amongst. Ink stained fingers paced his notes, smudging some of the more recent ones, his thoughts not at all with his experiment and wearily he rubbed at his eyes, dropping back into his high-backed chair and pressing his finger-tips together, his mind alight behind closed eye-lids.

Watson didn't go when told. Watson wouldn't allow himself to be swayed by Holmes' constant state of intoxication and drunken advices. The only thing left was a plan so brilliant that Holmes wasn't quite sure why he didn't stumble upon it earlier. He would simply ignore what had happened, pretend that none of it occurred. So simple, but there was no possible way it could factor. Watson simply was not as persistent as Holmes. He would give up out of irritation or loss of interest, the latter being preferable.

Still, the kiss had been a mistake. It most likely gave Watson some form of false encouragement, and frustratingly enough, the soft tingling still had not left and Holmes rubbed his lips as if to rid himself of it for good.

No such luck.

"Holmes," A voice spoke from the door way, and the Detective straightened up, "Since when have you indulged me in knocking, Watson?" He responded with a pleasant taste of his usual wit and the Doctor entered, smiling vaguely, "Too true, only I happen upon my manners every now and then," He jested calmly, glancing around the room before fixing Holmes with a look of disbelief, crossing the room and crouching down in front of him.

The Detective tensed, and when the space between them was short, he jammed his eyes closed, only lifting his lids when he felt a damp cloth on his lips, wiping aside the ink he'd mistakenly traced there before taking Holmes hand and cleaning it.

"Honestly, if I weren't here you'd make such a mess of yourself," Watson spoke disapprovingly, giving no hint that their lack of distance had done anything. Perhaps he too was pretending it hadn't happen. Holmes was all too grateful for this thought, though he'd felt so strange when the good Doctor had brought them close like that and his heart was pounding like he'd gotten an unexpected dose of adrenalin.

"I came to make sure you'd got the invitation," Watson spoke, straightening up and looking at the man who looked somewhat surprised, for once.

"We've moved up the wedding, it is this weekend," Watson continued, looking for something in Holmes' expression that the man clearly wasn't finding. Irritation, jealousy even? No matter, Holmes was well versed in keeping his feelings to himself and nodded briskly.

"That sounds pleasant, I'll keep my weekend free then," The Detective decided, climbing out of his seat and wandering back to the table, pacing through a few pages in the journal until he heard Watson bid him farewell and leave.

His lips pursed tightly and the annoyance surfaced. Wasn't this why he and Watson had fallen out initially? For someone who claimed to have feelings for Holmes, he was doing a fantastic job of finding someone else's arms. Wetting his lips, he tried to focus on the words in his book but they blurred becoming indistinguishable. He felt betrayal settle into his chest and he could've screamed were he not too sensible.

Wasn't he pushing Watson away?

It was healthier if Watson were to marry, rid himself of these ridiculous notions of being with the Detective.

Holmes was in no place to tell him not to marry the woman. Clearly she could give the Doctor something he couldn't, and that was all very well and fine. Only, Watson was his Doctor first. And Holmes was oh-so-selfish.

Pressing his fingertips into his temples, Holmes shook his head. No. He wouldn't lure Watson away from her with promises he couldn't fulfil. He was cruel at times, but never that cruel.

Even as the days approaching the wedding passed, Holmes only set forth in his job as a 'friend' and encouraged Watson. Spending his time alone furiously reminding himself that he couldn't ruin this chance for the Doctor and reminding himself that the only thing that was making him feel so irritated was his dislike of sharing, nothing more.

"Can we stop here for a moment-" Watson murmured to the carriage driver, stepping out of the cart in front of the Baker Street house, heading inside and upstairs, "Holmes?" He questioned, rapping on the door and receiving no answer, he peered inside finding it empty. Frowning, he pushed the door further open and strode in, pacing the floor and sifting through the stack of newspaper clippings on the desk, his hand reaching out and bracing around the hand pistol Holmes surely would never leave for a case without.

A creak almost caused him to job and he turned, "Oh, I didn't realize you were here-Have you seen Holmes?" He questioned the elder woman who shook her head, a tone of distress in her features, "Not at all, not since last night-He kept going on about some break he'd made in this case and he still hasn't returned. I mean, he spends nights out at a time but I do worry, if you see him at your wedding, please do tell him he needs to check in-And good luck," She smiled pleasantly, Watson nodding quietly, his hands around the gun as he headed out to the carriage.

"Ready to go?" Mary smiled from the cart, they'd been heading to get ready but now the Doctor felt a weight on his chest, concern growing, and she noticed due to the slip in her smile.

"Mary…"

"Don't you Mary me, Dr. Watson. We are getting married today, you can't put it aside for Sherlock Holmes. The man is self-destructive and he'll end up getting you hurt," Mary insisted, "Please, just come, Watson," She continued with a pleading look.

"He's been missing-"

"Just leave it, he'll turn up," Mary assured him.

"I can't, I have too…" Watson trailed off, the female frowning, "You spend so much time looking after him, Watson, it isn't your job-The way things are going, you may as well marry him," She mumbled, turning to direct the carriage off, leaving the Doctor standing there with a gun in his hand and only a bare idea where to start.


End file.
